Indifference
by Pippin Longstocking
Summary: Kitty Genovese was just an ordinary girl. A girl who would never know that her cries would be heard nearly thirty years after she had made them.


A one-shot inspired by my millionth viewing of _Boondock Saints_.

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The purse was nothing special. It was just a black, faux alligator skin bag with a long strap and a broken zipper. When it hung from her shoulder as she walked, it would bounce off her thigh and swing around to bounce against the back. The contents were just as ordinary as the outside; a lipstick, a compact, a comb, a wallet full of useless receipts and a twenty dollar bill, and a credit card that she hardly ever used. It was simple. Ordinary.

Just like Kitty.

Rolling up to the curb, parking parallel to it as she always did, she sat in her car for several minutes to enjoy the quiet. It had been a long day, and she had dealt with far too many drunk people for her taste. Now as the minute hand of her watch declared it to be fifteen minute past three in the morning, she heaved a long, exhausted sigh. It was pointless; she knew she would just be doing it all over again the very next morning. She would be staggering through that door, waking Mary up and mumbling some reply to the usual, "So how was work?" She would be assaulted on all sides by orders, agitated customers, overly friendly drunks, and whining employees that weren't satisfied with their schedules. It was always the same.

Lingering just a bit longer, enjoying the warmth of her car, Kitty released one last sigh and stepped out, only to duck back in to retrieve her coat and purse. Slipping both on as she pushed the car door closed with a booted foot, she began what would be the very last walk to her apartment door.

It was dark in the parking lot near her apartment. Hidden by the rear of the building, very few streetlights managed to illuminate the area so when a slight, lean figure suddenly made the shadows stir, she halted instantly. It was only a man, that much she could tell, but he was a silhouette among many, and distinguishing any of his features would have been impossible. All the same, her heart raced and her blood rushed; she was frightened. Of what she didn't know, but she was. This man was trouble, a stranger. She knew the people of this neighborhood, and she was quite certain that this man wasn't one of them. Saying nothing, she immediately turned on her heel and headed straight for the police box.

Something was very wrong. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a hummingbird's wings, and she could feel her breath coming in sharp, short bursts. She knew that she didn't need to glance back to see that the man was following her.

There were footsteps, possibly created from large, heavy shoes. Kitty only needed to hear three before her adrenaline urged her into a run, and the panting that merged with her own stirred a greater dose of speed from her. She was small and slender, faster, she could have outrun him. The tug on her shoulder, however, said otherwise. He had snatched the strap of her purse - the purse that had once been nothing more than just a plain, black handbag that could never possibly harm her. Now it acted as a lure, pulling her in as though she were a helpless fish caught on some bait. He reared her back and grabbed a handful of her shirt, his fist like an iron clutch no matter how much she fought to free herself. She began to weep even before the pain shot through her back.

It was dulled at first, watered down thanks to her panic, but when he dragged her back further and she saw the blood dotting the worn pavement, a pain like vicious fire ripped through her slender frame. He had stabbed her, for what else could have caused such a terrible pain? Releasing a scream as sharp as her stricken lungs would allow, hope lit her eyes when several window did just the same.

"Oh my God, he stabbed me! Please, help me! Please! Help me!" She shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably and no longer feeling the pull of her shirt, or hearing the pig-like grunts of the man. Sound became muffled, as though cotton were plugging her ears, but very faintly she could hear the roar of an older man, crying out, "Let that girl alone!"

Would he save her? Would any of them save her? Would the shadows that lingered in the windows rescue her from this madman? Something almost like a smile struggled to form on her lips, but as she waited for what seemed like minutes, no one budged. They stood there, still as statues. They watched her with child-like wonder, like she was some exotic creature in a zoo, or some side-show attraction. Was this _entertaining_ them? Were they simply going to stand there and let her die like this? The man, like smoke in the wind, vanished. The sound of a car door slamming barely registered in her foggy brain, but she knew that he was gone now. Still, no one came to her. They just kept staring.

Kitty could feel herself fading away, and even with her thoughts rapidly disappearing, she forced herself to collect whatever composure she had and find her way to safety. Lying on her stomach, she crawled through the street, her shirt collecting spilt blood, dirt, and other bits of debris. With every twitch of her shoulder, more blood flowed from her wound and warmed her back. It was too warm; it burned her.

She dragged herself on the ground for ages, slowly building up enough strength to make it as far as her apartment. Mary would help her. Mary loved her.

Further into the darkness she ventured, now boiling in an oven of pain and fire. How could a single stab wound burn so much? It felt as though fire were clawing into her flesh, ripping it off in strips and grinding its fist into the slit over and over again. Was this Hell? What had she possibly done to deserve something this cruel? And most importantly, why was everyone letting all of this happen?

By the time Kitty had stopped crawling, she had wedged herself into utter blackness. This wasn't her apartment, she could tell that much, but the cold and the shadows would protect her. They would protect her like no one else would. She lay on the cold pavement, pressing her burning cheek into the loosened pebbles. She didn't care if they were sharp on her skin. It was nothing compared to the raging fire that blazed on her back. In her slowly dulling senses, she managed to just pick up the sound of a car pulling up close by. Its hazy figure loomed beyond her hiding place, and from it stepped a slight, lean figure.

A slight, lean figure…

The man had come back. Tears mingled with the blood that stained her face, and the force of her weeping was so great that it could no longer produce a noise. She could only manage, "Please. Don't do this. Please…please…" in cracked, broken whisper. She received no reply, but the shine of the bloodstained knife glowing cruelly in the moonlight was enough to let her know that her pleas were to be ignored. Closing her eyes, she turned away and begged God for mercy, for forgiveness, for anything. When the blade dug into her shoulder once again, and her screams tore through the night for the second time, blackness had already swallowed her sight.

Kitty Genovese was just an ordinary girl; a girl who would never know that her cries, that her story, hadn't been ignored. For nearly thirty years, the ghost of her screams would haunt all who heard them. No lessons would be learned, however, for her story was not the only one. So many like herself suffered at the hands of not crazed maniacs, but of people who simply stood by and did nothing. All the same, she wasn't ignored. But she would never know that.

She would never know that the people who had been watching her like a show pony had simply been as frightened as she was. She would never know that the changing times would bring new individuals that would never let a horrible thing like that happen. She would never know that her story, along with so many others, would be the catalyst for twin brothers who were once ordinary people, too.

She would never know that the Saints of South Boston had heard her cries nearly thirty years after she had made them.


End file.
